


pusillanimous youth

by neighborhoodscum



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Craig is sad, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I may not finish this, I'm Sorry, Kenny is emotional support, M/M, Multi, Ohhh boy, One-Sided Attraction, Oops, Rare Pairings, Rewrite, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Thomas isn't a dick in canon, Triggers, Very Rare Pairings, he loves his son i promise, mysterion - Freeform, ships to be announced, very angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-06-08 10:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15241509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neighborhoodscum/pseuds/neighborhoodscum
Summary: He was alone.He had been pushed away or abandoned by each and every person he cared about, and he knew in the deep, depth of his heart that it couldn't get any worse.But Craig Tucker had never been so, so wrong.•••In other words, a story of ups, downs, hitting rock bottom, and helping a stoic asshole of a kid find happiness again.





	1. Thomas

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> This work is a rewrite of a work written almost exactly 2 years ago, that was never finished and never worked on past the first published chapter. However, over those 2 years, I have progressively wanted to pick it back up again, only to discover how grossly written the original was including pacing and more.
> 
> I'm still unhappy with the pacing of this work, but I will say that it's much better than the one I did before.
> 
> I do, however, want to include the following trigger warnings for this chapter that may and/or will be consistent throughout the story:  
> *Child Abuse  
> *Self Harm
> 
> So, without further ado, enjoy this work.

He was alone.

Many people could see it without getting to know him in the slightest--Craig Tucker was alone and he more than liked it that way. Of course, he hadn’t always been alone. He’d had friends before. Clyde, Token, Tweek, and Jimmy. The only friends he ever actually had got tired of him being so negative all the time and refusing to follow them to social events. They understood he had social anxiety, they understood he couldn’t handle it as well as they could, but after years of constantly cancelling and abandoning plans because of Craig not being able to go, they eventually left the boy alone. 

After their friendship finally dwindled to the point where Craig feared that soon it would cease to exist--probably around the beginning of their freshman year of high school- Craig had finally learned to accept that he was completely and utterly alone. For the next year, he thought he couldn’t get lonelier.

But he was so wrong.

Things eventually took a turn for the worst. He’d had years of nothing but sitting in bed night after night without sleep whilst he held Tricia in his lap as she tried her hardest not to cry with his hands over her ears. He’d been listening to his parents yell at each other and the sounds of them growing violent with each other. The painful sound of palm against cheek, fist against bone, his dad against his mom. His mom would start the fights unintentionally, simply wanting to talk. She wanted what Craig did, what Tricia did, what everybody did--a normal household with a normal family and a normal life.

Finally, not three weeks before Craig’s sophomore year and Tricia’s first year of middle school, Craig’s parents got an abrupt yet easily predicted divorce. What wasn’t easily predicted, however, was his mother then moving to Florida--and taking Tricia with her.

Craig had never had a great relationship with his father. They were always arguing, and before the divorce, Thomas would occasionally raise his fist to the boy. But it’s not abuse, Craig would think, it’s not very often.

Once his mother was out of the house and almost entirely out of the picture, it did become a frequent thing. Screaming until the house shook and being hit so hard he’d stumble back into walls and knock things off the shelves (initially followed by more screaming). Of course, he was still alone. Of course Clyde and Token and Tweek had crawled back a bit with occasional conversations (typically consisting of simple “How are things?” questions), but Craig assumed it was only because of the divorce and his sudden loss of half of his family with less than two weeks notice that he may not see his sister or mother for years.

And Craig felt himself crumble. His one feeling of purpose had vanished. The only times he ever felt worth something were the times he was protecting his sister. The countless nights he’d be fighting his own painful tears and lump in his throat, only for his sister’s big blue eyes to look up at him. She’d always be fighting her tears at home, but once she heard the hurt they inflicted upon each other those dreaded nights they’d sit in his bed awake, they’d escape. There’d be one, then two, then four, then six, and she’d never stop. She’d cry for hours without stopping, each tear forming a new crack in Craig’s shattering heart. He felt like he was protecting her- he was her only source of comfort in this house whenever their father was home.

But now she was off in bright and sunny Boca Raton feeling as safe as she probably ever has in her entire life.

To say that this series of events hadn’t taken a toll on Craig’s mental and physical health was an understatement. Craig had lost so much weight, so much hope, so much will to move forward, and so much motivation. He’d become known for skipping full school days, although nobody knew exactly why. He was always either sleeping, in too much pain to make it through a school day, or he looked too roughed up and Thomas threatened to murder him if he gave people the sneaking suspicion that something wasn’t right at home.

But it was odd how nobody knew. Nobody saw the wounds Thomas gave him, the bruises he’d inflicted, the reflexes he’d programmed into his son. But then again, nobody saw the wounds Craig gave himself. The horizontal lines that littered his arms, giving an almost ladder-like appearance to them. Some were shallow from dull scissors, and others were deep that cut almost craters into his wrists.

And maybe he should have told somebody. Maybe somebody should take him from his house. Maybe his friends wouldn’t have left him. Maybe he should show his emotions more often. Maybe he should change everything he’s ever know. Maybe he shouldn’t be Craig Tucker.

…

His feet skidded across the pavement in front of Tweek Tweak’s house as he burnt the rubber on his torn up sneakers. He was only just now stopping the sprint he’d broken out into ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago. He had completely and utterly booked it across town.

His cape flapped violently in the wind as he doubled over to catch his breath. His hands never left his knees as he took a few tense steps forward before collapsing into a pile of snow in a panting, wheezing mess.

Kenny stared at the sky, thinking of space. God, he hated space. It was where he floated up to each time he died, and the general idea of it was terrifying. As snow began melting through his costume, he counted the stars that twinkle in the sky above him; shimmering orbs he could stare at for hours.

Or at least, until he heard the yelling.

There was a house a few doors down from the Donovan’s, and Kenny had never seen much activity from it before. It was brown and dull, similar to that of cardboard Amazon boxes (minus the semi-colourful tape, of course).

He'd seen the typically quiet household before. It was usually still and undisturbed, sitting silently and out of the center of attention. Obviously whoever lived there was content with staying out of the spotlight and reserved, as for it was one of a few houses that did not have music blaring from its open windows (which, in this case, often stayed closed) every few days. 

Kenny heaved himself up, swinging his fists forward through the air. He felt the back of his costume soaking nearly slushy water into his skin as his gloves stuck to his wrists like fly paper. 

He inched near the house swiftly yet quietly, making sure not to cause a ruckus in the snow. The squeaking and squeeching beneath his feet had to be sufficiently masked to whatever extent he could if he wanted to make any form of return from his trip. 

Once he reached the window closest to the house’s front door- the kitchen window- he kneeled beneath it and reached up for the windowsill to prepare to haul himself up. The metal framing was freezing beneath his gloved fingertips, soaking them thoroughly through the cloth. 

As Kenny heaved himself up, he heard more bangs and crashes from the inside of the house. Screaming between two males continued on, signaling the kid he needed to hurry on with scaling the side of the house. 

He lugged his body weight up to the nearest lit bedroom window (although he was not very heavy in the slightest). He peered inside, squinting at the sudden brightness beaming into his pupils. He couldn't squint for long, once he saw the horrifying sight before him. 

Inside the home was Craig Tucker, the silent kid he'd spent his entire life completely avoiding getting to know--every class with him from preschool to tenth grade was spent silently on their ends, not intersecting at any point on any positive terms. Of course, the moment he reached the window, he was smothered in the stench of pot and alcohol. Kenny would say it was as bad as his house, but even though there was more smoke in his house, the fact that it was all confined to one small room was overbearing. The bedroom was blue with faded spaceship stickers and glow in the dark stars plastered along each and every wall, with shitty, grungy band posters stuck over other, brighter ones--assumably ones that Craig had been too lazy to take down. Craig was, at the moment, silently standing in front of a big and buff ginger man, who Kenny assumed was his father. 

His father, however, had his voice raised louder than the speakers that gave Kenny ringing in his ears for weeks--screaming so loud he could barely hear the sounds of his own breathing or the low grunt he let out.

“Now listen here, kid,” Mr. Tucker growled, a beer bottle slipping from his left hand, “you're gonna get your shit together, and you're gonna respect me from now on. Do you understand?”

Kenny felt the balls of his feet weighing down on the gutter beneath them. He wasn't as light as everyone told him he was. 

“But what the fuck have you done for me to--”

“I said,” Mr. Tucker raised his voice, yanking the boy forward by the collar of his shirt before bringing it back down to that dull, threatening growl he seemed to have mastered, “do you understand?”

Craig forced himself away from his father, looking down in submission. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Tucker snarled before recollecting his drunken posture and taking a deep breath. “You better, or you're gonna be in a real world of hurt.”

Kenny watched Craig as he kept his eyes to the floor, listening as his father shut the door and left. The monotonous boy made his way over to his bed quietly, swinging his legs over the side and crossing them tightly in front of him. 

Craig looked unusual. Of course, he stuck out at school like a sore thumb--that same, grossly blue jacket every day, sleeves pulled down past his palms and his head in his arms in every class. His grades, contrary to popular belief, weren't that bad. But his skipping problem was. His skipping problem didn't allow him to maintain high enough grades for class valedictorian, something he did want to achieve so that maybe, just maybe, his mother would come visit him at graduation. And he can see Tricia again. 

Kenny studied his face. It was droopy and his eyes had gray bags underneath them that Kenny had never really noticed before. Yellow bruises littered his face, with tinges of blues and purples along his jaw and his arms.

His arms.

Craig was, for the first time that Kenny could really see, in a white Nasa t-shirt that showed his frail and skinny arms. He looked unnaturally boney and his arms were also littered with not only bruises, but red lines that made Kenny’s heart drop.

Kenny hoisted himself back up to get a closer look at the boy’s seemingly dark actions as he reached for the drawer of his nightstand. He slowly pulled it open before reaching in to retrieve two silver and gray sticks. Kenny couldn’t tell what it was from where he was at, but he could only assume them to be blades.

He felt bile rise to his throat as he heard a sniffle from the cracked window. But, of course, he had to get home very soon. He couldn’t keep spying through the asshole kid’s window.

Kenny, feeling the phone in his belt vibrate, lowered himself quietly away from the window to answer it.

“Hello?” he whispered, straining the muscle in his arms and legs to keep himself from falling.

“Kenny!” a small voice from the other side of the receiver called. It wasn’t Karen. She didn’t have a phone.

“Leo, I’m- hng- a little bit busy, bud.” Kenny readjusted himself on the gutter and grunted. “Can I call you back?”

“Karen’s here,” Butters begged, “she’s worried sick, Ken! She wants you to come home.”

Kenny felt terrible. He can’t keep running off like this. He can’t keep neglecting his own responsibilities just to look after everybody else’s--including being a makeshift CPS.

Kenny sighed, and promised Butters he’d be back soon as long as he kept her at his house. He didn’t want her at home with only Kevin around.

Refusing to simply abandon the boy who was probably now already injured, Kenny pounded on the window before leaping down and dashing away from the window.

And of course, all Craig could catch was the glimpse of a figure in the night.


	2. The Group

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Craig is introduced to an odd little group of friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, basically, where the main story is actually going to begin. Whilst Craig's home life is essential to the plot, I don't want that to be all that the story's about.
> 
> So, I guess, enjoy.

“Craig? Craig.”

Craig blinked, turning his attention to Token, who was eyeing him down from across the cafeteria table. “Token.”

“You need to sleep more,” he muttered, looking back down at his tray and picking his macaroni with his fork. He seemed hesitant to tell Craig what he needed--maybe because of how fragile he seemed. 

“Yeah, I know,” he spat down at the table. It was cleared. It wasn't like he had been buying lunch for the past few months--because, of course, he hadn't. 

For the past two weeks he’d been back with his old friends, mainly because of Token. He’d noticed a sudden rough patch in Craig’s physical health, and although the boys weren’t very close anymore, he wasn’t going to sit back to watch his ex-best friend suffer alone. Token took the kid in to basically socially nurse him back to wherever he’d set his expectations to.

Craig swiped aimlessly between his app screens, zoned out on the actions and his own thoughts. He felt anxious at the thought of last night’s events. The idea of someone seeing him injuring--no, the thought of someone seeing his dad--scared the living shit out of him. It wasn't like Craig had an idea of how long they were there for. No, Craig had zero fucking idea. Had they seen nothing? The injuring? The shouting? The fist fight? No, Craig was in the dark.

He felt as though he was going to vomit when he was slapped on the back suddenly.

“Hey, man,” a voice said, chuckling slightly at Craig’s exaggerated jump and gasp. It wasn’t an amused chuckle. It was dry.

Craig looked up to meet eyes with Kenny McCormick. He was sitting on the cafeteria bench beside him, which shifted under the sudden weight that had been plopped down on it--not that Kenny was remotely heavy in any way, shape, or form.

“McCormick,” Craig mused dryly, “are you in need of something?”

Kenny snorted, glancing at the other few boys at the table. Clyde was staring down Kenny, unsure of how to feel of this random appearance he wasn’t expecting. His face was twisted into an expression of confusion and distrust, but even though he was trying his best not to let ‘mister welfare’ over here know that he was hesitant to welcome him by attempting to keep a straight face, Kenny could see right through him--Clyde had always been too easy to read.

Token’s eyes were more relieved than Clyde’s, however, assumably because he’d taken Kenny’s self-invite as a sign that Craig wasn’t all alone. Token was searching for a sign of bad intentions, however couldn’t find a damn thing and simply looked down at his food with a sigh. Tweek and Jason simply sat there indifferent about the situation, in their own little side conversation.

“I don’t need a thing, actually,” Kenny smiled, the gap in between his front two teeth prominent. Craig had noticed that gap before. Not like he spent his time admiring this asshole.

Craig hummed, clearly unconvinced. Kenny never spoke to him unless he had a favor to ask of him, and that wasn’t necessarily something that Craig was up for right now. “Then what are you over here for?”

Kenny shrugged, “I dunno. I felt like talking to someone new, and fresh--the same four friends gets pretty repetitive after, what, thirteen years?” Kenny smiled. “You’re not Stan or Kyle, or Butters, and fucking hell you’re not Cartman--you’re different. Spicy, even.”

Craig furrowed his brows suspiciously. “I have never once been described as ‘spicy’ by anybody. Ever.”

Kenny shrugged once more. “There’s a first for everything.”

Rolling his eyes, Craig looked back down at his phone and continued his mindless swiping between his home screens. Kenny swallowed, looking up. Nobody was paying attention to the two anymore.

“Hey, uh,” Kenny started, clearing his throat and leaning in closer to him, “if you'd rather they not leech onto you for the rest of lunch, I can offer up a seat with me, Butters, and Scott.”

Craig looked up lazily. He couldn't really process Kenny’s invite--for starters, the two rarely talked. Even then, he shouldn't assume his only friends were leeching onto him even though he was, to be honest, entirely correct. However, Craig had been relatively thankful for their return, even though they were very, very clingy today. Perhaps expanding his friendships would be beneficial for him one way or the other, even if it was a bit nerving at first. 

Craig gave a small glance back at Clyde and Token who were just chatting up a storm. Or at least, Clyde was, as for that boy could not for the life of him learn how to close his own mouth. Upon returning his gaze to Kenny, he noticed the hopeful yet clearly concerned look in his eyes and decided he had to follow him for just this day. 

Craig gave a small nod and Kenny's eyes lit up immediately. The blond boy reached forward, pulling the kid to his feet before dragging him off and across the cafeteria to an isolated corner with five people at the table.

The list began with most notably, Butters Stotch, who was quick to shrink into the bench at the arrival of the deadpan boy. This, of course, didn’t pass by unnoticed or without guilt. Craig, of course, couldn’t help he was intimidating, even if he wasn’t the tallest kid anymore. He’d just hit his growth spurt early in elementary school, and he was on the brink of being short anymore.

Butters, despite his very obvious fear of the boy, smiled up at him anyways once Kenny gave a reassuring nod in his direction. He had perfect teeth and very smooth, clear skin aside from a few freckles that speckled his nose and cheeks. His eyes were that deep sea blue that Craig wore every day, though they never truly found his smile when he saw him. He had a blue jacket pulled over his typical baby blue attire, with blue jeans and black sneakers--perhaps he was bluer than Craig.

Sat beside him was Scott Malkinson, in his usual green jacket zipped all the way up to his throat. He shook his leg habitually, biting his tongue and picking around at his salad with a fork. He was looking at some sort of Instagram profile for a golden retriever. Scott sniffed lightly, his nose bunching up and concealing his freckle-littered bridge with folds of skin for that brief nanosecond they scrunched. He lifted his chin to meet Craig's gaze and offering a small smile before returning to the canine on his screen. 

Kevin stoley was on the left side of Scott, fiddling with the red scarf around his neck drowsily. The poor kid looked as though he'd been recovering from a cold for his usually clear skin was red and splotchy and he was rubbing his nose like no other. He pulled the scarf over the bridge of his nose and sighed in defeat, opening his eyes to look up at craig. He had green eyes--perhaps he was the only kid he knew with green eyes--and unlike the others, did not smile. He simply sighed again, offering that sickly expression he couldn't help.

On the very end of the bench of four was Jimmy Valmer, who was laughing with David Rodriguez from across the table. Jimmy's lazy eye was facing Craig, which as much as he hated to admit it, kind of irked him. Despite his notable features, such as his off-centered jaw and eye out of alignment, Jimmy was rather good looking. David himself was giggling lightly, his forehead pressed against the bun of the burger in this hands as his shoulders shook. He was tan and had certainly caught Craig's attention before--at least he did when he was 12, when every boy had caught his attention. Firecracker crushes weren't uncommon in those days. 

Kenny turned over to Craig, giving him that big toothy grin (which he obviously didn't return) and sat down on the bench beside David. 

“What's good, my fellow pussy pounders?” he greeted, folding his arms on the table. It wasn't even a few moments before both Butters and Scott slid a sandwich and two dollars across the table to the nearly broke kid, to which he gave a thankful smile and nod and quickly unwrapped the food and dug in immediately. 

“Everything is okay,” Scott shrugged, “except for Kevin. He's still sick.” Kevin sneezed before banging his head on the table exhaustedly. “I hate this,” he muttered against the surface of the table. “This is horrible. I feel like I'm suffocating. My voice is all nasally and disgusting.”

“What's wrong with a nasally voice?” Craig asked, quirking his eyebrows. He wasn't serious, of course, but Kevin still looked up startled and began rambling an apology to which Craig only shook off. “I was joking.”

Kevin turned an unpleasant shade of red to match his nose and put his face on the table again. Kenny simply smirked to himself, chewing on the ham and lettuce in his mouth while giggling into the back of his wrist. Craig looked over at him unsurely as though he didn't know how exactly he was supposed to communicate with people. He rarely ever spoke outside of Clyde, Token, and Tweek--well, Jimmy occasionally checked in on him but he had branched of from their group long before Craig ever had. 

Kenny nodded in approval at him, which had reassured him enough to answer Butters when he spoke up. “Well gee, Craig, what brings you here?”

“Kenny wanted me to,” he shrugged, “I don't know why, though.”

Butters nodded. He understood. It wasn't the first time Kenny brought some random person over to sit with them--hell, Pete had come over a handful of times. He wasn't as bad as people thought he was, despite his occasional comments about being surrounded by conformists. He was pleasant and quiet, and although he was goth he did like loosening up with Kenny and his friends to laugh. It's not like he could really do so anywhere else. 

“Hey C-Craig,” Jimmy beamed at him. It had been a small while since they'd caught up. “How's it h-hanging?”

Craig spent the remainder of his lunch period with Kenny and his friends talking about random shit that he certainly would never be up for conversation about with Clyde and Token (maybe because they were so hard to talk to at all nowadays). He did feel better than he had sitting nearly alone, but he still didn't feel good. He felt almost fake. 

Porcelain, even. 

When the bell rang and the kids all scurried back to class, Craig lugged himself up to leave. He didn't want to go. He hadn't felt this positive in months, or even the past year. 

All good things must come to an end, and that was just the unfortunate truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end of Clyde, Token, and Tweek--trust me. There will be more of them eventually.
> 
> I'm not sure why I decided on these guys as a group, but they're so underrated and underappreciated (and, not to mention, they own my heart) I thought they could use some spotlight. I don't quite know where this story is going to go, nor how I plan on portraying various other characters (ex. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman). I do hope you're enjoying it so far, though.


	3. Mario Kart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Craig can enjoy friends like he really wants to.

“Would you want to come over to my house after school?”

Craig looked up startled, dropping the pencil in his left hand. He'd been doodling the solar system along the margins of his paper, but now his moon had a harsh line down the middle. 

“Well, not just you,” David dismissed quickly, “I just figured that since you were Kenny's friend--and, I guess, now part of our group--you'd want to come with. We hang out every Friday. This week is my house.”

Craig took in a deep breath. He never went to anyone's houses anymore, let alone did anyone invite him to theirs. “Are you sure?”

David gave a small smile and nodded. “It--it was Kenny’s idea, but we all agreed you seemed pretty cool. Besides, our group’s been kind of bland lately. Y’know what I mean, right?” David seemed to fumble over his words as though he was desperately trying not to offend the kid. Craig found this amusing in a somewhat sad sense, though still a bit touching. He wasn’t used to this kind of consideration being put into his feelings.

“I’ll go,” he interrupted David’s rambling,which he was thankful for. “Great,” David smiled in relief, “I’ll see you then.”

He watched David disappear. He still couldn’t process this whole ‘friendship’ thing.

It didn't take long for that period to finish. The final bell rang, leaving Craig fumbling textbooks into his bag and bolting out the door of his physics classroom. He wanted to find Kenny, and ask what the hell he was planning that involved Craig going over to David’s house after school. 

He found the blond asshole at the water fountains by his locker.

“David’s house?” He snapped, pushing the boy away from the stream of water he was drinking. Kenny stumbled in a fit of coughing from practically inhaling his drink unexpectedly, before eventually settling with his hands on his knees and staring up at the boy above him.

“It’s tradition, dude,” he panted, wiping his mouth with his wrist, “one we hold every Friday.”

Craig let out a dry chuckle, “one I was never a part of. Hell, I wasn't even aware of it.” He looked around at the students who were now leaving the hallway, probably to go smoke weed in the woods. “I've barely known you for 3 hours, don't drag me into this shit.”

Kenny blinked. 

“You're going,” he realized, grinning to himself. “You said yes.”

Craig could feel himself turn a bright shade of red, to which he began vigorously rubbing them in hopes of having something to blame it on. “I didn't know how not to,” he seethed through gritted teeth, opening his eyes to drill them into the blond bitch he was faced with. “He was fumbling over every fucking word, I felt like shit!”

Kenny simply grinned wider, regaining his posture and standing back up straight. “Well,” he huffed contently, bringing his thumbs to the backsides of his backpack straps, “I suppose you'll just have to go then.” He have a slight nod to a practically steaming Craig before walking past him leaving the noirette alone in the hallway. 

… 

Craig met up with them at the 7-11 down the road. It was free slushy day, and you bet your ass that 5 teenage boys with no sense of maturity were going to use this to their advantage. 

When he walked in, he didn't see them at first. He simply focused on the door to keep himself from focusing on the judgemental cashier. The cool glass beneath his palm and the jingle above his head. The scratchy thumping of the matted rug beneath his feet.

“If you put one more fucking flavour in there I'm going to beat you.”

Craig began heading towards the back where the slushy machine was, only to be met with the sight of Kenny using every singly machine to make the ultimate suicide drink. The four others were holding cups filled to the brim with, notably, one colour only (except for Scott, who opted for a bottle of water and a sandwich Butters bought for him with his leftover lunch money). 

Craig simply watched as Kenny then proceeded to pass his cup over to David and lean down towards the machine, looking upwards, and slowly pulling on the handle--of course, sending slush pooling in his mouth to drown him. 

It was a few moments of laughter and scolding before Craig actually walked towards them, David and Kevin awkwardly patting Kenny’s back now that he was choking and coughing up sticky lime syrup. 

“Oh, hey, Craig!” Came the smallest voice of the six. Butters was beaming brightly, holding Scott’s sandwich and a few other snacks, along with his own slushy. “I didn't think you'd really come!”

Kenny forced his eyes open in order to make sure butters was correct and that Craig was actually there. When he did see the navy blue jacket, he felt the pride bubbling beneath his skin. “Tucker,” he nodded, pushing himself away from the metal countertop. Craig responded with the twitch of his eyebrows, desperately trying not to seem as though he hadn't hung out with anyone before in years. Scott quickly turned to his bag, pulling out a blue Wii-U disc case and holding it up to the guys.

“I’ve got Mario Kart,” he started, fumbling with his bag to stuff the disc back in, “I also have Call of Duty, but none of us are twelve anymore.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy snorted, “we only play r-real g-g-games, now, fellas.”

Kevin grabbed a bag of cheesy poofs from the snack shelf before tossing them onto the cashier’s counter. “Only the best.”

Craig didn’t feel like he was present in the situation. The six were chattering amongst each other, leaving him to awkwardly listen in on mute. The boys had clearly been friends much longer than Craig had imagined they’d been, considering how many inside jokes were being cracked that he couldn’t really even begin to make sense of. Something about Robert Donovan being a prostitute on Tuesday nights.

They eventually left the gas station and no more than five minutes later they’d reached David’s house. The living room was very cozy, looking comfortable and homey in Craig's eyes. It smelled like baking bread and cinnamon, and he couldn't remember the last time his house smelled like anything similar. 

There were family photos on the walls, showing how nice and put together David’s family was. In an internal bitter wave, he felt almost disgusted; the putrid stench of a happy family wafting throughout the entire house nearly sent him over the edge. He could barely handle it, with the bread, the cleanliness, the photos, the consoles, the traditions--

“You doing okay?”

Craig blinked. Perhaps he’d appeared too unhappy to be considered natural. He quickly shifted his gaze to the blonde beside him that was gripping delicately at his right sleeve. He offered a small nod, swallowing his guilt and looking into the vibrant blue eyes that were looking at his dull ones.

“Well,” Butters coughed, giving a small smile, “we’re starting up the game now. You’d better grab a remote.”

Craig turned around violently quick, watching as Jimmy lifted a remote from the bin and held it out to him as best as he could from over the back of the couch. Craig took in a small breath, leaning in to take the rubbery thing by the strap. It swung back, knocking him in the wrist. “Be c-careful, buddy,” Jimmy snickered, turning back around to the TV. Craig’s eyebrows raised subconsciously, almost uncertain that the kindness his former friend was offering was genuine.

“How many of us are there?” Scott asked, never once diverting his attention from the widescreen TV in front of him.

Kenny did a brief headcount, his lips mimicking words that were never even whispered. “Seven.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’m playing,” Kevin sniffed, wiping his nose across his shoulder. “I probably shouldn’t touch the remotes.”

“Don’t worry about it,” David shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. Kevin simply sniffed again, looking up at him unsurely. David only offered a small smile and held out a controller, which he took reluctantly. 

“So,” Butters chirped excitedly, “who’s ready to play?”

…

Craig was thoroughly amused by how quickly these six could turn a game of Mario Kart into something much more intense. It wasn’t long before the coffee table had been knocked over and one of Jimmy’s crutches was being launched across the room at Scott.

“Take this, you diabetic bitch!” Kenny yelled, plucking the crutch from the side of the couch and hurling it from above his head. Scott ducked, sending the crutch into Kevin’s shoulder, who looked equally as pained as Scott would have looked, had he not leaned down.

Craig was currently relaxed on the stairs, playing through the bars like an invisible force field was preventing him from any damage. While the other boys were wrecking David’s poor living room, Craig was in first place, his chest tightening with intensity at the game.

“You m-motherfucker!” Jimmy leaned over the couch to pick up his remaining crutch and began swatting Kenny with it. “Don’t touch my sh-shit, tard-ass bitch titty!” He was in the midst of brutally assaulting Kenny’s left calf with the metal bar (as he helplessly hobbled away, hopping on his right foot) when his character drove into dark blue, leaving Jimmy to drop his weapon and let out a scream of nintendo-fueled rage.

Craig watched from his safe haven on the stairs as the others continued to fight over the game, giving him just enough of an advantage to race himself into first place.

The game ended quickly after that.

“You motherfucker, Tucker,” Kevin breathed, turning his head to face the boy on the stairs. He was grinning sheepishly, as though he’d spoken inappropriately at the dinner table. “You play this often?”

“No, actually,” he snorted, “y’all just focus too much on the violent part.” It was only moments before he heard giggling from Butters to his right. His pale cheeks were dusted pink and he had a scratch on the side of his nose from David snatching his controller away. “I can see why Kenny likes ya, heh heh..” He turned to the other boys before mocking in a low voice, “y’all.”

“Oh, har har,” Kenny chuckled, leaning into David’s kitchen to catch the time on the stove. “Six twenty--oh, fuck--I gotta go!”

As the blond boy began his mad dash for the door, Scott called out, “where you going?”

“Work,” he yelled shortly, opening the door and not bothering to shut it behind him. 

“That’s odd,” David inquired with furrowed brows, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall. “Kenny doesn’t have a job.”


	4. Broccoli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig goes home and tries to relieve himself of his stress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm so sorry it's been nearly a month in a half. I recently started school and have been swamped, taking 7 classes (2 of which I'm not doing so great in). This chapter is kind of a filler chapter to allow you to delve deeper into Craig's mind and his home life before we get into the good stuff (which SHOULD be posted next Wednesday or Thursday, I'm not sure which).
> 
> Again, sorry I made you wait so long for basically a filler chapter. Enjoy, though!

Needless to say, Craig left maybe ten minutes later.

 

It was a rather silent walk from David’s house to his, granted they lived only a block away and it wasn’t even worth the time it’d take to put on music.

 

Nobody in South Park really lived that far from each other (except for Token, of course, who lived on the opposite side of town). Craig jingled his keys in the door handle before it eventually clicked open, leaving him to wander freely inside the house.

 

He paid zero attention to the light that was on in the kitchen, illuminating the sickly gray counters that were covered in dirty dishes. The stove was crusty, old water that had boiled over various pots sticking to the top. Cupboards were half empty and the fridge was leaking, the dinner table piled so high with bills, mail, and pub receipts that the only way you could guess the colour was by looking at the chairs and their nasty green cushioned seats.

 

Craig walked upstairs to his room, scowling at the mess in the kitchen that would even ruin a pig’s appetite. He threw his backpack down by the door where his ripped ‘Raging Pussies’ poster lay on the ground. He’d gone with his mom in fourth grade, but even though it was ripped and browning around the edges, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away no matter how many times he tried.

 

He was quick to open his closet doors (which loudly covered up the sound of his stomach rumbling) and pull out a thin white box. He shook it lightly to listen for the sound of plastic and glass before shutting the doors again and flopping backwards onto the foot of his bed.

 

The yellowing white sheets felt like scrub pants beneath his legs as she shuffled out of his jeans, freeing his boney thighs from their prison cells of denim. HIs boxers were light and loose, unlike the long and sweaty denim on the floor.

 

He opened the box carefully, lifting the lid up with as much delicacy as possible, revealing the green relief inside.

 

“Broccoli,” he muttered the name to himself, picking up the florettes of marijuana. Beneath his bed he reached for a crushed soda can with holes poked into the top and lifted it onto his lap. You could call it a makeshift bowl, but Craig preferred to call it his aluminum death trap. 

 

He pressed some of the weed into the top where the holes were punctured, and lifted a black lighter from the box. He flicked it a good two or three times before a flame appeared and he could light it up.

 

He pressed the can to his lips, inhaling deeply as the florette was lit aflame and began to release it’s THC. He couldn't feel much on the first hit, he never really did unless it was strong shit; the florette burning quickly into dust as he flicked the lighter again a few more times and drew in the deepest breath he could. 

 

He never understood why people said getting high felt numb.

 

It really didn't. It wasn't exactly like an alcohol buzz, either; it's a kind of high you can't really describe in words, but it's relaxing. It's silence with sound that resonates in your brain, relieving you of the tension you've kept on your shoulders for too long, even if it's only been a few hours.

 

For Craig, it was never about the tension. 

 

He would call it an escape, but that was never what it was to him. It sent him to an alternate universe, one where his mom was still making his dinner and Tricia was still laughing from down the hall. One where Dad hadn't taken that first shot of vodka that night when Craig was eight, one where his grades weren't slipping, one where he still had his closest friends by his side. 

 

He squeezed his eyes shut the moment he felt them being to tear up and sting and blew the smoke out slowly.

 

When he was younger, he used a shitty homemade sploof to cover the scent. A duct tape wrapped toilet paper roll with rubber bands sealing dryer sheets over the end. Blow the smoke into it, it comes out smelling like laundry. 

 

Soon, though, the whole house stunk like dryer sheets and weed, and Craig learned relatively quickly that he didn't give a shit whether or not he could smell the weed. It was better than artificial Island Paradise. 

 

When he was on maybe his fifth or sixth hit and was feeling the high, his phone began to buzz. Vibrating like wild and starting to irritate the shit out of him, Craig swiped the ‘answer call’ button without looking at the ID and lifting it to his ear. “Fucker residence.”

 

“Dude, where have you been all day?” Craig hummed quietly to himself. Whose voice was it? He knew it. He was too tired to place a name to it. “You ran off at lunch.”

 

Clyde. That was it. 

 

“McCormick needed some shit,” he mumbled, fiddling with the drawstring of his sweatpants, “not sure if I'll be back tomorrow. Want to come eat pizza?”

 

“Dude, are you high?” Clyde sighed almost sadly, as though he  _ cared _ that Craig was numbing himself. But the way he said it made himself seem innocent to Craig, even though they were both well aware that Clyde Donovan was, in no way, clean of Marijuana. “And? What's it to you?”

 

“Call me back when you're sober,” he swallowed from the other end, “I need to talk to you, but not like this.” A beep led the noirette into a pit of silence. 

 

He took a look at the bag of relaxed lettuce and sighed, hoisting himself up by his elbows and shoving everything on his bed back into the box. The lid wasn't fitting, but he didn't care, he didn't have the time to straighten it up. His dad should be coming home in ten minutes, and Craig needed to get his ass ready to sleep. 

 

He shuffled his way to the bathroom, ignoring the pit of hunger in his stomach. He began to enjoy the pangs of emptiness a while ago, because they reminded him he was in control of something. It was really the only thing he  _ could _ control, anymore--the weed barely even got him high lately, and feeling hungry seemed to do the trick. 

 

He stopped in front of the bathroom, slowly creaking the door open to reveal a dirty shirt on the floor. He gagged and picked it up with the tips of his ring finger and thumb before flinging it into the hamper beside the sink. 

 

His eyes were dark. Circles that looked painted on hung beneath them like bad memories of tragedy, and it wasn't like he knew what to do about it. He always looked as though he hadn’t slept well for a few years; and, usually, it was because he hadn’t.

 

He lazily stretched for his toothbrush, the minty toothpaste already on it from when he meant to do it this morning. It was gross, it was hardening, but he didn’t care. He was high. The grayish-green tones of the bathroom reminded him of a default Sims 3 style--he felt that way about his entire house, but the kitchen and bathrooms were the worst. They made him feel nauseous, like he didn’t clean it yesterday.

 

And thus he began to brush.

 

He closed his eyes as he massaged his teeth with the bristles, feeling light and loopy and wanting to fly away. Maybe to Miami. It’s not too far from Boca, right? He saw pictures dancing behind his eyelids to the sound of a breaking fan that was violently shoved from side to side wherever the blades spun. He closed his eyes from the lack of sleep, from the lack of eating, from the rest of the world. And perhaps from the door that slammed below.

 

Craig jumped, hearing his father grunt his bags down on the floor. HIs brush hung from his mouth helplessly, teeth gritting down on it as he whipped his head around in search for escape. His only choice now was to toss it in the sink and swallow the toothpaste, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to scrub it in the morning.

 

He shut the light off quietly, knowing damn well that if he left it on there'd be major consequences, before running as swiftly as possible into bed as he forced the goopy green froth down his throat. 

 

…… 

 

It wasn't until later that Craig realized his father was not alone, and it only took obnoxious moaning to do so. 

 

Drunken shrieks bounced off the walls into his room, a woman's voice groaning and begging obscenities that even left Craig queasy. And for a while, he sat in silence trying to unsuccessfully drown out the sex across the wall. And, for a while, it was helping. 

 

Until it wasn't. 

 

Craig had always been emotional inside; he just was really good at hiding it. If people can’t pick apart your expression, they can’t really tell how you feel. If they don’t know how you feel, they can’t figure out what hurts you.

 

And if they can’t figure out what hurts you, they can’t hurt you. Easy.

 

The sound of the night began to crush him, filling the gaps between his ribs with water that drowned him in his own breath. He felt weights hang from his lungs that he fought immensely to inhale with before the sobs set in and he began to cry.

 

If he could saw tear ducts in half to stop the crying, he’d have scissors with him at every given moment. If he had emotional pain receptors, he’d ruin those too.

 

Everything hurt all the time. His wrists, his head, his heart, his throat, his stomach, his mental state, his own will to live--and here he was, the stoic and unbreakable kid, crying helplessly in the night.

 

Craig felt alone. Nobody ever really stuck up for him, nobody ever even really cared about him. Though, if you really wanted to believe so, he still did have Clyde and Token, he just didn’t feel like they really did care. They made minimal effort to keep in his life, though their concern did seem genuine at times.

  
He felt helpless. He felt alone. He felt like there was nobody there, up until the thud in front of his bed that shook him from his breakdown.


	5. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which somebody has broken into Craig's room and saying some very questionable things, and Craig's questioning how many people know his secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so sorry that this story is updating so slowly. I was gone for 2 or 3 months with serious writers block because I absolutely hated this chapter. However I finally sat down and brute-forced my way through it, so here it is.  
> Second of all, honestly I hate this chapter?? Hjdjskd  
> It's lame and is probably going to fuck up the plot of this story but like if y'all like it I'll roll with it, so please let me know!  
> Anyways, go ahead and read. Sorry again!

Craig sprung up like a rocket, kicking his feet to scoot himself away from the silhouette of a body that had just rolled in through his bedroom window (which he had made the extra effort to lock, by the way). He squinted, trying to make out the figure as he reached over to his lamp. He thumbed around for the switch, only to discover that flipping it did absolutely nothing; somebody was holding the plug.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Craig only held his breath. This person, this dumbass had just broken into  _ his house _ and then had the nerve to ask if he was okay? He felt the tears that previously swarmed his vision disappear into his bottom eyelid and struggled to find his voice.

 

“That’s a no, then,” they concluded quicker than Craig had hoped for. “At least I would assume so; the sound of nine-at-night sex is gross.”

 

The voice seemed off, as though they were speaking through one of those plastic megaphones that modulated your voice. It was doubled and squeaky in a way that didn’t quite hurt his ears. It made him uncomfortable, adding to the stress that he couldn’t tell who it was.

 

He felt the blood rush to his cheeks, heating up his entire face. “The hell do you want?” His voice cracked, nose twitching lightly. “This is my house, get out!”

 

His vision began to clear a bit from tears and was adjusting to the dark, when the figure held up an object to his face. He flinched, unable to make out what it could have been--a gun? A knife? A tazer? 

 

Or, of course, a flashlight. 

 

The blinding LED struck him right in his pupils, sending him back against the headboard with a yelp. Phosphenes clouded his vision, dancing in bright colours that swirled as he blinked. “You absolute ass,” Craig growled, bringing the heels of his hands to his eyelids and began to roughly dig into them. “It's late, I'm tired, everything is _fine,_ you don't need to blind me, just get out of my goddamn house!”

 

“I'd believe you,” the person said again. They began to pace back and forth on the wooden floor, watching him from behind the hood covering their face, “except for the fact that this isn't the first time I've taken a look into your life.”

 

Craig felt is face drain of colour. Vivid memories of blood vanishing from his head when a pounding sounded on the window not too long ago began rushing back. His throat began to close and his stomach twisted, twisted, twisted--

 

“Everything seems to be going wrong,” the person sighed, sounding more sympathetic. “I know. It sucks.”

 

“I'll call the police if you don't tell me who you are,” Craig's voice broke, knuckles whitened by the deathly grip he was holding his blanket with. “Get out if you don't.”

 

The person paused in a moment of hesitance, seemingly shifting their weight from leg to leg in thought. They glanced around the room, examining each object silently as they slowly made their decision. The ripped  _ Raging Pussies _ concert poster, the old glass Coca-Cola bottle he'd kept from his trip to Pennsylvania maybe 11 years ago (it was clean, of course, but considering he'd never drank from a glass bottle when he was six, he thought it was incredible and kept it), and finally, the box of shitty broccoli on his bed. 

 

“You smoke,” they stated, their gaze lingering there. Craig felt just a little bit suffocated by their fascination with the drugs that lay on his bed, but sat still nevertheless. “What’s that all about?”

 

Craig swallowed. “I like the high,” he muttered, “though, this stuff doesn’t really do the trick. I’m kind of ignoring it.”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” they mumbled, pausing in their steps. “You’re just sputtering out bullshit.”

 

Craig leaned in a few inches closer, eyes clearing to where he could somewhat see the outline of a person. He squinted slightly, though just a little too obvious; it was only a second before the LED met his eyes again, this time for about eight seconds. “I’m serious!” He growled again. “I’m calling the fucking police!”

 

The person chuckled. It was the only thing they’d done that even seemed remotely tell-tale, and perhaps they’d noticed since they shut up quicker than they’d come in. “Again with the bullshit. You’d never call the cops to your own house--what would they do?”

 

Carig paused, looking around the room. Moans and groans of a name that most certainly didn’t match ‘Thomas’ (he never gave the women his real name) could be heard through the walls of the house, and he was so, so  _ sick _ of it being like this. If the cops came, they’d ask questions; his weed, his dad, his mom, this woman that was currently getting her ass drilled by the man he should have been able to look up to.

 

And, fuck, maybe he should be more willing to be taken into foster care and be dropped off on the doorstep of some stranger’s house in Colorado Springs. Maybe he should be more willing to shove his dad into jail for all the shit he’d put him and Tricia through, maybe he should be more willing for shit to get better. It’s just that, in a lot of cases, he could never see shit getting any better given the way that it’d have to go beforehand.

 

“You don’t know shit,” Craig breathed, going back to his dull and dead tone. Monotony was his default as a kid; not much anymore, unless he was upset. “This is all shit. Get the  _ fuck _ out of my house!”

 

The person sighed, reaching up to rub their face. “Okay, alright,” they caved, pausing to listen in on the gross moans that bounced off the bedroom door. “But the moment you need help, you do exactly as I say, alright?”

 

Craig swallowed back his urge to shout, glaring into the eyes of whoever was pacing in his room. He was exhausted, of course, and being awake at 1am on a school night was never favorable. If Clyde or Token complained the next day, he might just lose his mind; or, maybe, it was Clyde or Token that stood in front of him right now.

 

“You know, I’m a problem child.”

 

Craig blinked. They were walking towards his desk, opening and flipping through journal after journal of things that he’d thought up.

 

“I’m always getting into trouble. Left and right, I’m bouncing between the jackasses I call my friends and facing their consequences for them. Everything turns back around to bite me, and for a while I’d gotten pretty fucking sick of it.”

 

Finally, the person turned to face him. All he’d figured out so far was that it was a guy; but the more he listened, though, he found himself struggling to try figuring it out and instead listening intently to what they had to say.

 

“I debated for a while whether or not being self-destructive was worth it,” he mumbled, the audio modifier fusing his words together. “After all, if I don’t do it myself, then somebody’s gonna have to, right? But here’s the thing; I’ve only got so much pain that I can feel. I can be ripped apart and know deep inside that there’s only so much worse that can be done. But, maybe, there’s a better way to go about it.”

 

The guy took a confident step towards Craig, who was sitting with his left knee pressed against his chest, guilt residing in the depth of his gut.

 

“Which is why I’m here. You need help, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do my best to give it to you.”

 

Craig didn’t really understand.

 

Years and years had passed with nobody really giving a shit about him; his mother had left him behind, Tricia hadn’t even texted him, Clyde and Token were seconds away from dropping him, his father could forget he existed, and now suddenly, some kid he doesn’t even know who it is wants to be the light at the end of his tunnel? Is this really how the story was going to play out for him?

 

Maybe, in the back of his mind, he knew he should take it. He knew they meant well, and that there was only so much bad they could do (they’d really said it themselves, in a way) and he’d be an absolute dumbass to pass it up.

 

“I think, for now, I’m okay.”

 

It was a blunt lie.

 

The guy sighed, shaking his head hopelessly and reaching into the depths of his pockets. “You’re too thick-skulled, Tucker.”

 

And in a moment, an LED was once again striking him in the eyes, clouding his vision painfully. He rubbed the living hell out of them, begging the guy not to pull this shit again as he did so.

 

But, like everybody else in his life, by the time he’d opened his eyes the guy was gone, and nothing but an LED flashlight was left behind.


End file.
